


Pas de Deux

by Fallynleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ballet, Ballet Dancer Castiel, Ballet Dancer Dean, Black Swan - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Episode: s07e16 Out With The Old, M/M, Swan Lake - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallynleaf/pseuds/Fallynleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is more affected by the cursed ballet shoes in 7.16 "Out with the Old" than he lets on, and after he and Sam take the cursed items away to dispose of them, Dean falls into an elaborate dream where he plays the role of Nina in the film Black Swan, with Cas playing Lily's role. Unlike Nina, Dean embodies the dark and sexual Black Swan, but has trouble playing the delicate and innocent White Swan, which Cas embodies perfectly. Dean struggles to play both parts of the Swan Queen role, and in the process, he discovers that he's dreaming. The only problem? He can't wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was my very first time participating in a big bang! It was loads of fun, and I'm so glad I was able to make this fic exist! Thanks to [padaleckhi](http://padaleckhi.tumblr.com/) for agreeing to beta this kind of last minute, and to my artist, [theycallmecas](http://theycallmecas.livejournal.com/), for the lovely illustrations! The art post for this fic is [here](http://velvalocity.tumblr.com/post/133021608571/art-masterpost).
> 
> This fic contains spoilers through episode 7.16 "Out with the Old," and some spoilers for Black Swan, though it is not remotely necessary to have seen Black Swan to understand this fic.
> 
> I also should mention that I have no ballet experience personally. I did do a lot of research in order to write this fic, but if I got anything glaringly wrong, I apologize. And yes, I am aware that Black Swan is a terrible source for accurate information about ballet, but the reason why it has such a large presence in this fic is because Dean is familiar with it, so it essentially serves as his framework for the world of ballet.
> 
> All of the links within the fic are to youtube videos of songs and/or dances from Swan Lake. Feel free to listen to them as you read! And if you want to see what the ballet moves that I'm describing look like, you can watch them, too. Or you can ignore the links if you want. They're fully optional.

Afterwards, Dean couldn't remember opening the box. Sam said he had done it, and he must've, because when they checked it was unlatched and empty, and the red velveteen interior of the box had two shaped depressions that were a perfect matched fit for those pink satin pointe shoes that were currently sitting on the dashboard of the truck. Dean knew that if he put them on, they would be a perfectly matched fit for his feet, too.

He'd tried to just imagine what it would feel like, get it out of his system somehow, but at the next red light, he'd found himself with his leg propped up and one shoe already off, the pointe shoes gripped tight in his straining hand, Sam's fingers like a vice on his wrist.

"We're going to find a motel, I'm going to drop you off there, and I'm going to drive away and get rid of them," Sam said.

"Okay," Dean said. He didn't watch as Sam gingerly picked up the pointe shoes without directly handling them and maneuvered them back into their box. He didn't tell Sam that he didn't think touching them actually mattered at all. If Sam hadn't yet managed to put together what the other victims had had in common, then Dean sure as hell wasn't going to help him. The first victim had been a ballerina, the second had been obsessed with ballet, and Dean... well, this was not the first time he had wondered what it would feel like to dance en pointe.

He knew it probably had to hurt, but at least it looked goddamn beautiful .

Because the first time Dean had watched _Black Swan_ may have been for the story, but the second time had all been for the dancing.

He'd even bought a ticket to see a production of _Swan Lake_ , afterwards. Had made up some lie to Sam about planning on going out to a bar that night to get laid.

Ballet just felt like something that was so entirely different and separate from every single aspect of Dean's life, he could appreciate it purely on the merits of escapism alone. The monsters in ballet were portrayed and slain in surrealist pantomime.

Of course, hunting couldn't even leave _that_ one stone unturned.

So Dean sat alone in the motel room and tried not to think about it.

It was like he had his own damn wall in his mind, and the longer he waited and the harder he tried to ignore it, the stronger was the urge to scratch.

It didn't help that the mattress felt stiff and a little misshapen where his ass rested, or that the clock on the wall ticked loud enough it almost drowned out the sound of a couple having a vehement argument in the adjacent room, or that the air conditioning kept trying to kick on, but the room never got measurably cooler.

Dean shifted, restless. Then something caught his eye.

It was a pair of shoes, perched on the windowsill. A sleek silhouette edged in yellow light from the street lamp in the parking lot just outside the room. One ribbon dangled tantalizingly, a thin shadow against the wall.

Dean closed his eyes. When he opened them, the windowsill was bare.

He stood up. He started to pace without meaning to, walking the length of the room in the narrow space between the two beds. His whole body felt on edge, a weird tension in all of his limbs, but especially in his legs and feet.

As he turned, he glimpsed them again. A blur of pink satin, resting against the open bathroom door in a patch of shadow just beside the slanted square of window-light.

He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and pressed his fingers against his forehead.

They couldn't be real. Because Sam had them in their box, and Dean wasn't there to open it and take them out. Sam would not have left him here alone if he had not checked the box before he'd driven away.

But, _god_ , Dean wanted them to be here. It was a fierce, desperate wanting, and so fake it could never fool him, except it was.

"I'm a hunter," Dean said out loud. "And not the pampered-rich-boy Prince Siegfried kind." He wished Sam were back, because he could really use a case right now. Something that would put a gun in his hand and a monster at the end of its barrel. A distraction, anything to focus on that was not the clock ticking a steady meter, or the voices of the other motel guests rising and falling in a disjointed melody.

He sat down abruptly on the bed. He tried to think of anything but dancing. He could almost hear the notes of a variation on [the _Swan Lake_ theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqjdJZcGF-0) filling in the spaces of silence between the beats of the clock.


	2. Act I

Dean's eyes flew open and he sat up, threadbare sheets sliding down his bare chest. The morning light was dusty in the motel room, sitting heavy on the blankets and the bedside tables. Dean swept the covers aside and swung his feet over the side of the mattress. He looked over at the other bed‒empty, of course‒and tried to feel relieved.

There was a sound from the bed behind him, a rustle of fabric.

Dean turned around, and his eyes followed the curve of a delicate back, long brown hair spilling onto the pillow, the sheets draped loosely over her slim legs. Her chest rose and fell gently as she slept. She was hot enough; it almost made up for the smell of stale beer on her breath, her eyeliner smeared, lipstick mostly worn away. Dean rubbed his mouth, and a smudge of red came off on his hand.

His eyes flicked over to the clock on the bedside table. "Dammit," he muttered. He walked towards the bathroom, calculating travel times in his head, trying to figure out how many minutes he could spare for a quick shower.

A glimpse of light pink satin caught his eye, and he stopped.

It was a pair of satin panties, lying discarded on the floor. Dean stared at them. Then he blinked a couple times, shook his head to clear his thoughts, and stepped into the bathroom.

He emerged a couple minutes later, the mirror not even fogged up, and dropped his towel to slip on a pair of clean underwear and a fresh change of clothes. Then he reached for his second duffel, the one that was still zipped up and unpacked, and slung it over his shoulder and headed for the door.

The girl in his bed stirred and sat up blearily. "Where are you going?" she asked, her hangover evident in her voice.

"Work," Dean said.

The girl clambered out of bed and started to gather her clothes off of the floor. "Wait‒" she said.

"Sorry, I'm running late," Dean said. "I had a good time last night, though." He smiled at her, then stepped out into the hallway and closed the door.

The girl had plenty of time to shower, get dressed and get out before John got back. _If_ John even got back.

Dean ended up being fifteen minutes late.

He stopped to change into his shoes, first. When he unzipped his duffel, his eyes caught on a carved wooden box, an intricate sigil etched into the curved lid. Dean briefly ran his fingers over it, but reached past it and grabbed the pair of shoes tucked in beside it.

Soft piano music echoed down the hallway, muffled by the door.

Dean grasped the door handle, turned it gently, and the music spilled out around him. He stepped into the room and quickly walked over to the barre, his eyes sweeping over the other dancers in an attempt to gauge how much of the warm-up he'd missed.

"To the back, fondu, to the back, plie. Fourth, fourth, and one and fifth, to the back..." The ballet mistress trailed off. "You're late, Dean," she said.

"Sorry, ma'am," Dean said. "Won't happen again." He gave her his best grin.

She narrowed her eyes. Ellen Harvelle had learned fast not to take any shit from Dean. "Next time you're late, you're out of the company. I don't give second chances."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said.

A murmur went through the rehearsal room. Dean turned around, expecting the whispers to be at his expense, but the other dancers weren't paying attention to him at all. Instead, everyone was pretending not to be looking at the corner of the room, where a man had just entered.

"Keep going," the man said, waving his hand. "I'm just here for the show."

Ellen stared at him. She blinked once or twice, then stepped away from Dean and resumed facilitating the warm-up.

Dean had met the director of the company previously, but it had been a very brief meeting. He recognized the director's soft swoop of brown hair, the way his face wore a smile too easily. Like everyone else in the room, Dean kept a careful watch on the man as he moved through the warm-up.

And Gabe wore the attention well. "It's a classic story," he said. "We've all seen the porn parody: it starts with a virgin. Trapped in the body of a swan, she wants her freedom. But she'll only get it if she finds the right guy."

He sauntered around the room. Dean watched as Gabe reached over and snapped his fingers in the ear of one of the dancers. She flinched, lost her balance, wobbled a little.

"Then a prince tries to hunt her. He's also a virgin, I might add."

Gabe walked in front of Dean, but ignored him completely. He rapidly snapped his fingers in another dancer's ear, and that dancer flinched, too. He didn't lose his balance, though, and that seemed to please Gabe. At least, it amused him.

"But before the virgin prince and the virgin swan can have their shotgun wedding and have sex that does not count as bestiality, the swan's dark twin, the whore swan, seduces the prince and turns him into damaged goods. Devastated by the _formerly_ virgin prince's betrayal, the virgin swan takes the swan dive, and her death finally breaks the curse and ends the ballet."

There was a sudden sound in Dean's ear, the click of someone's fingers, and Dean came up from the port de bras and eased onto the ball of his foot on relevé without so much as a blink. He'd been ready for it. When Gabe stepped around him, he seemed almost disappointed.

The music stopped.

"Good morning, homies," Gabe said. "Spoiler alert: we're doing Swan Lake." He clapped his hands together. "But due to a sudden, very unfortunate heart condition, Marshall Hall will be sitting this one out. And all future performances. He's quitting ballet."

Another low murmur started up in the room.

Gabe waited for it to quiet down before he resumed speaking. "So we're down a Swan Queen. I'm looking for a replacement. But how many of you can embody _both_ swans? The white and the black? The virgin and the whore? Well, according to the patriarchy, none of you can. I'm a little more open-minded."

He paused, drawing out the anticipation. "If I snapped my fingers obnoxiously in your ear... meet me in studio B at five. Everyone else..." he shrugged and put on his best fake apologetic frown. "I guess that means you lose."

 

* * *

 

Dean arrived a minute or two shy of five o'clock.

The other dancers stood in a thin line on the side of the room, awaiting their turns. Dean joined them, but stood a little apart from the others.

A couple notes from the piano rang out, and a slow melody began. There was movement at the center of the room, and Dean realized that one of the dancers had already begun his audition.

He had dark hair, this dancer.

Dean's breath caught. He followed the lines of the dancer's arms, which lifted to imitate a swan's wing beat, each movement executed with perfect control as to appear effortless while the dancer glided across the floor.

He danced [Odette's Variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SdMnRO8eN4E) from Act II of Swan Lake. His was a lonely dance. There was a sadness in his eyes, an expression of sorrowful resignation reflected in the calm blue.

He lifted onto his toes and then into a pirouette, and the airy connection between him and the ground narrowed to just that one tiny point. If it weren't for that single tether, he might have been weightless.

_This is it_ , Dean thought. _This is how it should be_. He supposed he ought to feel a sense of competitive envy, but instead, he just felt something that might've been awe.

Then the song wound up to the finish, and the dance was over.

Gabe waved his hand in dismissal. "Do I even need to say it? You got the part, kiddo."

Someone made a small sound of indignant protest. Gabe rolled his eyes. "Not the _Swan Queen_. He's just filling in for Anna's spot, since she left the company for greener pastures." He gestured towards the dancer. "This is Castiel. He's my little bro. We look alike, don't we?" Gabe leaned in close to Castiel, who had no visible reaction to the encroachment on his personal space.

"Yeah, I don't see it," Dean said.

Gabe rolled his eyes even more dramatically. "We're not _physically_ related. Geez, you idiots really will believe anything I tell you." He surveyed the line of dancers. "So, who's next? We haven't got all day, people!"

A woman hesitantly stepped forward. Gabe motioned her over to the center of the room, and the piano started up again. Everyone's eyes were on the new dancer, gauging her skill, weighing their own chances against it.

Except Dean. His eyes kept wandering over to Castiel instead. There was something about Castiel's presence that made Dean feel almost reassured and relieved, yet there was a certain edge to that feeling that Dean couldn't quite identify.

And then Dean turned to glance at Castiel again, and found that Castiel was gone. He had slipped out of the room without Dean even noticing.

"And last but certainly‒ _probably‒_ not least... Dean, it's your turn," Gabe said. Dean blinked, then regarded the other dancers, who were all staring expectantly at him.

"Awesome," Dean said. He didn't move.

"What song do you want? Odette's Variation? Another piece from Act II...?" Gabe asked, gesturing with his hand as he encouraged Dean to fill in the blank.

"No. I'm tired of listening to the White Swan's variation," Dean said. He stepped out from the sidelines into the main body of the room, smirking as he noticed the other dancers already appraising him. He cracked his knuckles. "Maestro, give me [Odile's Coda](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxgj4iMQLhU)."

He was still smirking as he launched into the fouetté, extending his leg and whipping it to the side, then bending it and pulling it in to touch his knee. He kept his gaze centered directly on Gabe as he turned, following the momentum with another fouetté, and then another.

There was no time for nerves between the fast-paced notes of the song. Dean wouldn't have been nervous, anyway. _I got this_ , he thought. There was a certain rawness to his movements, but that was how Dean always danced. It was how he did _anything_.

He met Gabe's eyes, and Dean held his gaze.

Then the room went quiet. The piece had ended.

"Well, you can't argue with that," Gabe said, shaking his head. "See, people? _That's_ what I'm looking for. That confidence, that raw sensuality..." Gabe started to fan himself. "The Black Swan knows what she wants. She'll do it rough, she'll do it dirty, she'll rock your entire world... and then you'll wake up with a hangover and an empty bed. And maybe she even helped herself to a wad of your cash while she was at it."

Gabe looked at Dean. "If I was just casting the Black Swan, I'd say it's a done deal," He shrugged. "But... I'm not."

"So what does that mean for me?" Dean asked.

"Show me your White Swan. Then we'll see."

The piano started. Dean began to dance again, his movements slower, this time. He grinned at Gabe again, trying for a softer smile.

"Stop paying attention to me. I'm not here. You're dancing for _you_ right now; don't try and seduce me," Gabe said.

Dean frowned, then tried to smooth his expression into something more neutral. He channeled his frustration into more power in the motions of his arms and legs.

"Too much power! We all know dancing takes a lot of strength, but you're not supposed to show it! You're supposed to be _vulnerable_ right now. And delicate," Gabe said. "Think of feathers, and flowers, and pretty, light things. Floaty things."

Dean tried thinking about them, but he didn't know how that was supposed to change anything. He moved his arms; flapped them in a fluid motion like wings and felt the flow of the movement as it rippled down his limbs.

"Try and pretend even just a little bit that you remember what it's like to be a virgin," Gabe said.

The song ended, and Dean stood there, out of breath.

Gabe just gently shook his head. _Not good enough_ , Dean knew. Every time he thought he was decent at something, he ended up letting someone down.

"Is that it?" Gabe asked, looking to see if any dancers still waited to take their turn. "Really? There's no one left?" He sighed in an exaggerated motion. "I'll sleep on it and make a decision, and then I'll try and get the results posted soonish. Until then, just... leave me." Gabe shooed everyone out of the room.

Dean was the last to leave. He wasn't feeling particularly eager to return to an empty, impersonal motel room. He thought maybe he'd practice a little longer, make up for being late that morning. More training never hurt, anyway. At least, that's what John always said.

But he couldn't stay and dance forever. After he practiced for a bit, he sat down and removed his pointe shoes, then stuffed them back into his duffel and slung it over his shoulder.

The halls were quiet as Dean walked through the building. The other dancers had all gone home.

Except for one person, judging by the light emanating from a dressing room which illuminated that corner of the hallway.

Dean stopped walking. He wondered why someone else would choose to remain this late. A sound came from the room, muffled and echoed by the hallway. It sounded like something hefty falling to the floor.

The door swung the rest of the way open after Dean gave it a cautious push.

A man crouched inside the room, picking items up off of the ground. He righted the upturned box and then started to pack the items back into it. Dean knew who this man was, though he didn't know him personally. All of the dancers knew who Marshall Hall was.

"What do you want?" Marshall asked, without looking up.

"I heard a noise and I thought‒I thought, uh..." Dean said. He couldn't remember what had prompted him to actually open the door. "What are you doing?" he asked instead, diverting the topic.

"I'm packing." Marshall picked up the last of the spilled accessories off of the floor, then stood up.

"You're quitting," Dean remembered, suddenly. "Because of your heart condition."

"Do I look like someone with a heart condition to you?" Marshall asked, bitter. "I'm the picture of good health. I exercise every day, I've never smoked, I don't even have a history of heart attacks in my family."

"Then why are you quitting?" Dean asked.

Marshall just looked at Dean and said nothing. Then he gave Dean a wry smile. "Gabe told me I'm too old to stay with the company."

"But you're not old," Dean said dumbly.

"But I am replaceable," Marshall said. "And congratulations, Dean. You're my replacement. Gabe told me he picked you."

Dean stared at him in disbelief.

"But I blew it. I screwed up my audition," Dean said. He waited to feel the rush of elation, or even just relief that he'd done it, that he'd landed his dream role, but he felt nothing. Just a sense of numbness that was fast becoming guilt.

"Then what's so special about you? What do you have that I don't?" Marshall asked.

"I don't know," Dean said, his voice quiet. "I don't‒I didn't‒" He swallowed. "I didn't want this to happen."

"Be careful who you pray to, Dean. You might not like how they choose to answer it."

Dean took a couple steps backward, and then he turned and left Marshall's dressing room. He walked quickly down the hallway, glancing at his watch. He hoped that Gabe hadn't left the building yet. Dean needed to catch him before he posted the results, which might be as early as tomorrow morning.

He didn't even hesitate outside the door to Gabe's office. He just reached for the doorknob and wrenched it open.

Gabe turned around in his chair, tossing a handful of candy into his mouth.

"Have you got the kielbasa I ordered?" Gabe asked.

"What?" Dean asked, his breath coming hard after he'd rushed to get to the office.

"Sorry. Wrong person, wrong time," Gabe said. He leaned back in his chair. "What can I do you for, Deano? Come to beg for me to give you another chance?"

Dean stood in the center of the office and stared blankly. "Uh, no," he said. "I'm here because..." He paused to try and even out his breathing. "Because I want you to give the role to someone else."

Gabe's eyes grew comically wide. "Well, isn't this a shocking turn of events," he marveled.

He reached into his bowl of candy and withdrew a piece. The wrapper crackled loudly in the silence. "My lack of mouth sounds is your cue to explain yourself," Gabe said.

Dean shifted on his feet. "Marshall should be the Swan Queen instead of me," he said. "I'm not a better dancer than him. And I don't‒ I don't want him to lose his career. He's young, he's got a whole future ahead of him, and I‒" He cut off sharply.

Gabe waited, sucking on a piece of candy. After a minute passed and Dean made no attempt to pick up where he left off, Gabe sighed wistfully and said, "Damn, I thought this was the part where you waltzed into my office and tried to seduce me into giving you the role."

The clock ticked, disrupting the silence. Dean looked around the room for it, but there was no clock in Gabe's office. The sound echoed. It seemed weirdly distant.

"Wait," Dean said.

He took in the whole of the office, Gabe, and where he himself stood, asking the director of his dance company about the role of the Swan Queen.

"This is _Black Swan_ ," Dean said. "This is literally _exactly_ the plot of _Black Swan_. And I'm Nina."

Gabe gave a slow clap. "Ding ding! We have a winner!"

It was like someone had finally pulled the cotton out of Dean's ears and he could hear again. Except now that damn ticking sound wouldn't leave him alone.

And Gabe's voice sounded especially grating. Dean glanced at him in annoyance, and then the recognition slammed into him, and his fists were tightening even as he prepared to lunge around the desk and put a couple dents in Gabe's face.

"Gabriel," Dean said. "I should've known. This has _you_ written all over it, you son of a bitch!"

Gabriel threw up his hands. "Whoa, hey, don't sock the messenger! This one's not on me!"

"Prove it!" Dean growled.

"Uh, I'm dead, remember? You watched me die. Then listened to my swan song à la _Casa Erotica_. I thought that'd be kind of unforgettable, but maybe I overestimated myself." Gabriel snapped his fingers and suddenly, he was wearing a familiar looking mustache. He turned to glance at his reflection in a mirror. "Hmm, does this make me look more the part of the sleazy ballet director?" he asked. "Maybe I should've put it on earlier. Helped jog that old man memory of yours."

"You've played dead before," Dean said, guarded. "You could've done it again."

"Oh, come on, Dean. Look around you! Everyone _else_ in this weirdo world of yours is dead!" Gabriel said.

Dean didn't want to think about that. "Then what is this, then?" he yelled.

"I dunno, smart guy. Isn't it your job to figure this kind of stuff out?" Gabriel propped himself up on one elbow. "Why don't you solve me like one of your case girls?"

Dean stopped paying attention to Gabriel. He wondered, briefly, if he could be trapped in another djinn hallucination, but quickly dismissed _that_ theory, because any wish that could've created this had to be too fucking stupid for Dean to will it into existence.

He apparently spent long enough running through his list of monsters, because Gabriel got impatient. "Well if it's not something _extra-natural_ , then maybe it's something just plain natural? Did you consider that? Geez, I have to do everything for you boys, don't I?"

"Shut up!" Dean snapped.

"Fine. Wake me up when you figure it out," Gabriel said. He swiveled around in his chair so that the back was facing Dean.

_Wake me up._

That sound of the clock‒Dean recognized it. It didn't belong in this office. It belonged‒

_Wake up_.

"I'm dreaming. All of this is just a dream," Dean said.

Gabriel's chair swiveled back around. "Want me to pinch you?" he asked. "Whisk you right back out of never-never land?"

Dean didn't reply. If this really _was_ a dream, now that he was aware of it, he'd be waking up any moment now.  That's how it usually worked, at least.

But he didn't wake up.

He tried to focus on the faraway sound of the clock from the motel room, used it to draw him out of the dream, but the ticking did not grow any stronger or clearer, and he was still standing there in front of Gabriel's desk.

"I'm not waking up. Why am I not waking up!?" Dean said, frustrated.

"Have you considered that maybe, you're just not ready to stop dreaming yet? That your little brain might've created this wonderland of yours for a reason?" Gabriel asked.

"No, because that's fucking stupid!"

Gabriel shrugged. "Hey, I'm just here because apparently, your subconscious thought I was the best fit for the role. You didn't even try very hard to hide me. Just shortened my name to 'Gabe,' like _that_ would do the trick."

" _Kill me_ ," Dean said.

"I can't tell if that's an honest request or if you're just being melodramatic."

Dean ignored him. He decided that he was done saying anything aloud until he'd figured this out. He wasn't quite sure how lucid dreaming worked, or even if this _was_ lucid dreaming, but maybe if he couldn't wake up, he could at least change how the dream went.

So he closed his eyes and willed Gabriel to disappear.

"Maybe you're not waking up because there's someone in the dream, a _dead_ someone, that you're not ready to let go of," Gabriel's voice said.

"Dammit!" Dean slammed his fist into the desk.

"You already know what I'm about to tell you, because your brain is the one putting all of these words into my mouth, but I'm going to tell you anyways, because you can't even get it past your own thick skull." Gabriel sat up in his chair. "It looks like there is only one thing left to do, Dean. Nina. _Dean_ a." Gabriel paused for a moment, tipping his head in brief contemplation before he shook the thought away and went back to staring directly at Dean. "You just gotta buckle up and [_play your role_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cevWEmWGalw)."

"Like _hell_ I'm going to play that game with you again!" Dean said.

"Oh my _dad_ ," Gabriel said, massaging his forehead as if he was developing a headache. "Look, just... If this is a dream, it has to end sometime, right? So what's so bad about just letting it play out? You'll get to wear a pretty tutu, do some sick dance moves, and hang out with some dead people that you'll never get to see again in real life."

And Dean hated Gabriel more in that moment than he had at any single point throughout this entire conversation, because he could already feel his fury draining away.

Gabriel wasn't supposed to say things that made sense.

Dean pulled back the chair in front of the desk and sunk into it. He was tired of being angry, especially at figment of his own imagination. At least the ticking of the clock didn't sound quite so loud and jarring anymore.

"So I'm not going to convince you to give the part to Marshall, then," Dean said, his voice even.

"Nope," Gabriel said.

Even though some part of Dean knew that this was all fake, he still felt that twinge of guilt wrenching his stomach.

"You know what's kind of funny, though?" Gabriel said. "I lied to Marshall when I told him I'd picked you."

"What?" Dean growled.

Gabriel shrugged. "I like to mess with people. Keep my dancers on their toes. Literally."

"Fuck you," Dean said.

"Is that an offer? Because I'm still waiting for you to try and seduce me," Gabriel said. He ignored Dean's answering glare. "Anyways, as I was saying, I was fully prepared to cross you off of the list, because I couldn't see any way you could drop that whole overconfident, oversexed bad boy act of yours. But then..." Gabriel trailed off, gently shaking his head.

"But then you came in here and asked for me to give the role to someone else, because you didn't think you deserved it," he said, closing his eyes. "And then I could see _her_. The White Swan, not believing that there was anyone who could love her. Not believing that she deserved to be saved. That she deserved to be loved." Gabriel's eyes fluttered open. "And _that_... was a version of _Swan Lake_ I would pay money to see."

Dean shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

"But then, you're Nina, aren't you? You already knew that you'd end up getting the part. All of this exposition is unnecessary," Gabriel said flippantly.

Dean stood up. "Alright, I'm done with this. I'm leaving."

"I'm posting the cast list bright and early tomorrow morning. Make sure you get there before a spurned dancer decides to deface it," Gabriel said.

"Oh, I'll be there," Dean said. "Unless I wake up."

"I wouldn't count on that," Gabriel said. "You just auditioned for a four-act ballet, and this is only the beginning."

 

* * *

 

Dean didn't remember going back to the motel and sleeping. Some parts of the story were already blurring together. He guessed that they probably weren't the important parts.

He just had to keep reminding himself that this was a dream, that the reason why things didn't make sense was that it was just his mind trying to shoehorn people in his life into the mold of a movie that didn't quite fit.

The hallways of the building bustled in the morning. This was familiar, comfortable knowledge for Dean, the kind that faded into background awareness.

He pushed his way through the crowds, weaving between people through the narrow hallways.

The largest cluster of people was at one section of the hallway, surrounding the bulletin board. Dean waited for an opening before he approached, catching all of the sidelong glances the other dancers were sending his way.

Under the headline "Casting Notice," Dean found "Swan Queen," and underneath:

_Dean Winchester_.

Even though he should have already known to expect it, he felt a shiver of stunned excitement run through him.

His eyes traveled down the list. After "Swan Queen," the next role listed was "Prince Siegfried," and underneath:

_Castiel_.


	3. Act II

Dean dialed the number into his phone, then lifted it up to his ear and waited for it to reach the voicemail. He didn't expect the person on the other end to pick up. Dean wasn't sure why he even bothered to call in the first place; he might as well just shout into an empty room and not waste his time.

"Hey, Dad, it's me." Dean took a breath.

He stood outside the restroom, staring at grey walls on either side of him.

"I know you're probably busy, and this isn't that important, but..." Dean ran his hand over his jaw. "I thought you might like to hear it, because you wanted this for me."

He didn't know how much time he'd already wasted in pauses and filler words. John probably wouldn't even listen to the whole message, anyway. Dean never had anything worth saying.

"I got the part," he said. There was a tremor in his voice that betrayed his excitement. "I'm gonna be the Swan Queen."

Someone walked by, but Dean wasn't paying attention. For a moment, he let himself imagine John listening to the message and smiling.

"It's a good job, Dad," Dean said.

He leaned against the wall for a moment, just breathing into the receiver.

"Well, I'll see you around back at the motel, I guess. Good luck with, y'know." He hit the "end" button and hung up.

He shoved his phone into his pocket, then turned to walk down the hallway, and immediately leapt backwards.

Because Castiel was standing close enough, Dean could almost feel the warmth of his skin.

"Jesus!" Dean exclaimed. "Personal space, dude!"

"I don't think we have formally met," Castiel said.

"I saw your audition," Dean said abruptly. "You were good. Almost better than me." He gave a hollow smile.

Castiel nodded. "You are the Swan Queen," he stated.

Dean swept his gaze over Castiel, assessing him. "And you're the virgin prince with the stick up his ass," Dean said. "Awesome." He maneuvered around Castiel, then started to walk down the hallway, headed for a rehearsal room. "So, how do you want to start, Cas?" Dean asked over his shoulder.

"At the beginning," Castiel said.

Dean wasn't quite sure what he meant by _the beginning_. But that's okay, because Castiel explained it directly afterwards.

"The part where I watch you dance," Castiel said.

Dean slowed his pace a little, caught off guard by Castiel's answer. "I guess that's fair," he said.

"And then the Prince decides to save Odette."

"Yeah, I know the plot of Swan Lake," Dean said. He didn't like the sense he was beginning to get that Castiel was planning to base some grand judgment of character on this dance. If that was going to be how it was, then Dean wanted to start with something from Act III, where he could dance as Odile, the part of the role he knew he was good at.

But Dean was never one to turn down a challenge.

So here he was, standing once again at the center of the rehearsal room, waiting for the piano music to start. All of the other dancers were staring at him, anticipating an undoubtedly skilled performance from the company's new principal dancer.

_Well, life is full of disappointments_ , Dean thought bitterly. His first couple movements were sharp, but he softened them quickly.

Dean forced himself to not look at Gabriel. The lack of focus lent a kind of aimlessness as he moved across the floor, and maybe that was what Gabriel wanted, but Dean didn't really know how to use it. It seemed artificial, and a little amateurish.

Caught up in thought, Dean screwed up the timing and made a misstep, moving out of rhythm with the music.

In desperation, his eyes latched onto Castiel and stayed there. Castiel became his center, his compass to orient towards when he started to lose his direction, his focus point whenever he had to do a pirouette or make another rapid turn.

After that, everything else in the room kind of faded into the background.

Too soon, there was the sound of someone clapping. The song had ended, Dean realized.

"Well, that was awful," Gabriel said cheerfully. He stopped clapping as soon as he got Dean's attention.

Dean just stared kind of dumbly at him and waited for him to explain.

"For one thing, you're supposed to be dancing alone for this part of the act," Gabriel said. "Ever heard the saying _dance like there's nobody watching_? No? Well, I guess you don't really strike me as a Kathy Mattea fan."

"I _was_ dancing alone," Dean said.

"No, you were dancing for _him_." Gabriel pointed at Castiel. "And that's good for the pas de deux, but don't you think you were kind of skipping ahead?" He waved his hand in dismissal of Dean's oncoming response. "Fight me over it later. We don't want to waste the other dancers' time, now, do we? So let's give them what they want to see." He gestured for Castiel to step forward.

"Show them your Prince Siegfried," Gabriel said. "Hot, but cold and untouchable. Not interested in girls‒ _or boys_ ‒until he finds the one girl who does it for him. Because everyone loves a story where the virgin finally finds The One."

And so Castiel started to dance.

He was perfect. Every step, every lift of the arms, every motion was deliberate and beautifully timed. Dean got lost in the movements, too spellbound to catch any flaws.

Castiel danced the part of Siegfried exactly the same as he had danced Odette.

The same practiced calm and control, the same lightness in the way he occupied the space on the floor. Except for adjusting the style and pattern of his dancing to fit Siegfried, it was almost a continuation of his first dance.

"See, Dean?" Gabriel said, leaning in to whisper into Dean's ear. "That's what I'm talking about. Virginal. Delicate. You start to show me some of that, then we're in business."

"Why didn't you just cast _him_ , then?" Dean asked.

Gabriel laughed. It startled one of the other dancers who was standing nearby, but not Castiel, who did not falter in his dance. "Because Castiel only dances the parts of virgins. He's a one-trick pony. And yeah, he's really good at that one trick, but every time I've asked him to try dancing the part of the Black Swan, he just gives me Odette."

The room went quiet as the piano stopped. Gabriel stepped away from Dean and said something to Castiel that Dean couldn't hear.

"So," Gabriel said, turning back towards Dean and the gathered dancers. "Now we've seen how Odette dances alone, and we've seen Prince Siegfried, but it takes two to tango, so let's see the two of you tango." He motioned for Dean to step back out onto the floor with Castiel.

"Maestro, give us the [White Swan Pas de Deux](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXUIOY8uZZk)."

The adagio began with Castiel dancing alone on the stage, his movements slow and graceful, quiet like the music. Dean watched from the side, waiting for his cue to join him. When it came, Dean rolled up from his heels onto the tips of his toes. Keeping his head and upper body level, he moved his feet quickly in a series of tiny steps with almost straight legs, gliding across the floor. The couru brought him behind Castiel.

They danced around each other, at first.

Dean didn't try to play Odette. He executed the dance only in the most technical sense, trying to get the movements right, figure out how he and Castiel could occupy the space onstage together.

Castiel maneuvered around him without directly touching him, his hands ghosting down the sides of Dean's arms, his presence floating over Dean, beside him.

His proximity still made Dean uncomfortable, but it wasn't for the same reasons anymore. This time, the air between them almost felt charged with something, and a tingle went through Dean's legs and arms, ending at his fingertips.

For the first time, Dean thought, maybe, that he could do this. That he could learn to dance for Odette.

He prepared for the part of the pas de deux where Castiel would be supporting him physically, Castiel's hands solid and dependable, their efforts combining to allow Dean to dance even more beautifully. Castiel would grasp Dean's hands first, and then would appear to slowly lift him from the ground as Dean rose from folded knees.

But when Castiel touched Dean for the first time, it was not a standard ballet movement.

Instead, Castiel's fingers settled against Dean's shoulder, his palm flattening so that his whole hand pressed against Dean's upper arm.

Dean broke character.

"Cas?" he whispered, falling completely still.

Because he remembered that sight, that terrible sight of Cas standing there with all the power of the souls of Purgatory inside of him. White light spilling out all around him, his skin glowing red with unstable power. He remembered each and every moment that led up to that. Every inkling of suspicion that Dean suppressed and denied, because he _knew_ Cas, and he knew that Cas would never betray them. He knew that Cas cared about humanity, that he cared about _Dean_. Because Cas would confide in Dean if something was wrong, and they could fix it together.

"You lied to me," Dean said. "You lied to me, and then you _died_."

Cas met his gaze with sad eyes, but said nothing.

Dean shoved him away. "I can't do this," he said to Cas, to Gabriel, to everyone else in the room. "I can't trust _him_."

Somehow, he had forgotten that this was just a dream. That none of it was even slightly real, or even an original story. This was just a messed up retelling of _Black Swan_ with a casting director who had a sick sense of humor.

"Go ahead and storm out of the room," Gabriel said. "But you and me are having a talk later."

Dean let the door slam loudly behind him. He hoped that the sound of it ringing in his ears would replace the piano notes from the pas de deux that still echoed in his head.

He couldn't believe he'd let himself get caught up in all of it. It's not like he could even fucking _dance_. He looked down at the tights and leotard he was currently wearing, and he felt so out of place in them and so fucking _stupid_.

He needed to find some other way out of this dream.

But while he was walking, his shoes caught on an uneven section of floor, and he stumbled. Dean decided that before he could do anything else he needed to get those shoes off, so he sat down right there against the wall and worked at the knot tucked under the ribbons.

The goddamn shoes were all worn out, anyway. Dean had felt it earlier, when he stood en pointe and noticed that the boxes were soft, his balance a little more unstable.

He had a new pair of shoes back at the motel that he still needed to break in, but he hated dancing in new pointe shoes. They always felt stiff, and the first couple times he used them, it inevitably hurt.

Again, his eyes stopped on the carved wooden box in his duffel. He stared at it for maybe a minute, his hand still poised to tuck the pointe shoes back into his bag beside the box, but then he blinked and shook his head briefly, clearing away the weird thoughts.

He went to Gabriel's office to wait, after that. The door was locked, because Gabriel was still overseeing practice.

Dean pulled out a lock pick and a tension wrench and stuck them in the lock. He didn't feel like standing outside the room like an idiot.

After he lifted the last pin and the lock popped open, he pushed open the door and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He sat in Gabriel's chair behind the desk, then tipped his head back and waited.

It wasn't long before Dean heard someone slide a key into the lock.

The door swung open, the light flicked on, and the sound of Gabriel's whistling stopped.

"Good, you're here. I wasn't sure you'd come," Gabriel said. "You kind of pride yourself on being a wild card, and I let it happen because it's good image for the Black Swan."

Dean expected Gabriel to try and kick him out of his nice office chair, but Gabriel just pulled up a chair in front of the desk and sat there instead.

"So," Gabriel said. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Dean regarded him, but said nothing. He'd expected that sitting at the other side of the desk would tip the power imbalance a little more in Dean's favor, but so far it didn't feel like it made any difference. His ass was definitely more comfortable, though.

"Well, I think we both know what happened," Gabriel said. "Everything was clearly your fault."

Even though Dean knew it, the blunt way Gabriel stated it somehow still stung.

"Excuse me while I psychoanalyze you for a bit." Gabriel cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was with a bad German accent. "You feel that you are incapable of emotional intimacy, especially with another man, so the moment you start to get close to someone else, you immediately back out and close yourself off."

Dean didn't respond to that. Because he knew that Gabriel wasn't wrong, and the moment he tried to deny it, the lie would be evident in his voice, which would make it even worse. But there had been more than just that at play, too, though for some reason, Dean couldn't quite remember it.

He just remembered dancing with Castiel, and those first few minutes of feeling like it was building up to something that felt exciting and good. And then it wasn't anymore, and Dean had stopped dancing.

"Though you know what's really killing me here, Dean?" Gabriel asked. "You almost had it. You were _this close_ to pulling off Odette." Gabriel demonstrated with the space between his pointer finger and his thumb exactly how close he'd thought Dean had come.

"But I wasn't even trying to play Odette. I was just dancing," Dean said.

"I know!" Gabriel said. "And it was going great! But then you remembered that there was no way someone like Castiel could love _you_ , and you went and ruined it!"

"That's not what happened!" Dean snapped.

"Then what did?" Gabriel asked.

"I don't know!" Dean said. "I just... couldn't trust him."

"Because if he loved you, then something had to be wrong?" Gabriel said.

"Because something always is!" Dean stood up. He was breathing hard, angry at everyone and no one in particular.

"Yeah, okay, I'm not even gonna try and touch that one," Gabriel said, finally backing off. "But this is only the tip of the repressed, low-self-esteem iceberg: we still need to talk about your demonstration before the pas de deux."

"What, so you can tell me how much I sucked then, too?" Dean said.

Gabriel considered it. "Yeah, pretty much," he said, shrugging. "What can I say? You've got a long way to go, kid."

Dean sat back down, trying not to look too much like he was sulking.

"I'll give you the CliffsNotes version: you still have no idea how to pretend you're still a virgin. You have to fixate on other people while you dance, because you can't deal with being alone."

"But I'm alone almost all the time!" Dean said. "Hell, do you know when the last time I saw my dad was? Because I sure as hell don't!"

"Yeah, and you spend as much of that time as humanly possible boozing it up and whoring yourself out for the cheapest sex your lack of emotional intimacy can buy. And here, let me tell you why‒" Gabriel leaned closer. "‒It's because you want to spend as little time as possible with your own damn self." He paused, watching for Dean's reaction. "You don't remember how you functioned before you discovered sex and booze, and you're too afraid to find out."

Dean refused to give Gabriel the response he was expecting. So instead, he chuckled, playing it off like a joke.

"Okay, I know I'm a funny guy, but you're not fooling anyone. That's the first time you've laughed at anything I've said. Honestly, I'm a little offended," Gabriel said.

Dean said nothing. He figured if he waited long enough, Gabriel would talk himself out.

"But anyhoo, I think I was about to get to your homework assignment," Gabriel said.

"Homework," Dean repeated.

"Yes, work that you do at home! Because you may have flunked out of high school, but that doesn't mean you're done with homework." Gabriel said, impatient. "And I know better than to expect you to do any amount of actual work. So I'm keeping it simple: no alcohol, no sex, not even jerking off, until you and the White Swan are like this‒" He crossed his fingers, showing just how tight he needed them to be.

Dean chuckled again. Gabriel gave him a look, and Dean said: "C'mon, wasn't that supposed to be funny?" He stopped laughing. "I thought you were going to assign something that's actually difficult. Give me some moves to practice, or something. Make me write an essay on the emphasis that American culture puts on virginity."

Gabriel considered it. "Maybe after you fail the assignment you just got," he said. "Now get out of my office," he shooed Dean in the direction of the door. "Go home. Get some sleep. Don't talk to me again until you've figured out how to get through Act II, Madonna-style." Gabriel stood up. He was humming "Like a Virgin."

Dean left without further argument. He had just about reached his limit with Gabriel's ability to instantly get under his skin.

He got back to the motel shortly afterward. The room was dark when he opened the door. Empty. Because of course it fucking was.

One bed in the room was still perfectly made, and the sheets on the other were thrown open and hopelessly bunched up at the end.

Dean dumped his duffel at the end of the unmade bed. He sat down on the mattress and stared at the opposite wall for a bit, already feeling that restless itch that always seemed to follow him back to the motel room.

But he'd told Gabriel that this "homework" was easy, and somehow, he didn't think he could get away with screwing it up and pretending that he hadn't. Which meant that he was stuck inside this room for the rest of the evening, because if he went out, he knew there was no way he'd be coming back alone.

There was at least one thing he could do tonight, though.

He fetched a brand new pair of pointe shoes that he kept in one of his other duffels. He'd known it was only a matter of time before his other pair would wear out, and he wanted to finish breaking in a fresh pair well before the performance.

On one of the shoes, he drew a little mark. A pentagram. It designated the shoe that, after enough wear, would ultimately become his left shoe. But other than that, the shoes were undifferentiated from each other, the pink satin still crisp.

He untangled the long ribbon, then set it beside the shoes and stood up.

There were a few things that Dean always carried in his duffel, just in case. He was so familiar with most of them; he could find what he needed in a dark room navigating only by how the objects felt.

Tonight, in a moderately lit motel room, he reached into the bag and quickly found the few supplies he required.

Then he sat back down beside the shoes and picked up the ribbon. He folded it in half and brought a knife blade cleanly through it. He cut both parts in half again, and then he set down the knife and picked up one of the four ribbons.

He opened the lighter he'd retrieved, rolled the spark wheel with his finger, and watched the little flame emerge from the top of it. Grasping one end of the ribbon, he quickly passed the fire over it, melting it so that it would not fray.

He prepared all of the ribbon ends in this manner. Then he closed the lighter and set it aside.

The next thing he picked up was a sewing needle. He didn't have much of a sewing kit‒just the bare-bones of one for emergencies‒but he made sure he always had good, sharp needles.

Then he opened a box of dental floss and snapped off a small length. He'd had a lot of practice sewing with dental floss over the years and he put that experience to use here, using a quick whip stitch to attach the ribbon to the side of the shoe at the proper angle so that it would sit right on his foot when he went up en pointe.

He attached the elastic, next, and after that, he put away the knife, the lighter, the sewing needle, and the dental floss.

The shoes were still stiff and uncomfortable and not ready for dancing in yet, but Dean couldn't resist trying them on first, anyway.

He didn't know why he always felt disappointed whenever he put on a pair of pointe shoes. They were the right fit, and would eventually feel fine on his feet, but it still felt like something was... lacking, maybe. That he could've found a pair that was even better suited to him.

Frustrated, he removed the shoes.

Without something else to focus on, the quiet of the room was starting to get to him. So Dean reached for the remote and flicked on the television. Some sort of monster movie was on. He changed the channel and found a paranormal reality television show with worse special effects than the monster movie.

He nudged one of the pointe shoes closer with his foot, then pressed his heel down into the rounded front of the shoe. The new pair would feel more comfortable after he started to put in the work to break them in.

For a while, he worked on the shoes, flipping through a bunch of channels that all failed to grab his interest.

Then he turned off the TV, kicked the pointe shoes aside so that he wouldn't trip over them later, and lay down in the bed and thought maybe he'd try to go to sleep.

Almost immediately, his mind started replaying the dance he'd shared with Castiel earlier. Just the first part, before Dean had ended it for a reason he no longer remembered.

He loved the way Castiel moved. Not even in a sexual way, though there was maybe a little of that, too, if Dean let himself think about it, but just the way the dance flowed through Castiel. The way he seemed so reflective and in-tune with Dean's movements, anticipating what Dean wanted.

It was like they'd known each other a long time. Like Castiel _knew_ Dean on some sort of deeper level that should make Dean feel uncomfortable, but instead just made him feel...

All of the words Dean could think of to fill that blank were not things he wanted to think about right now.

He wanted to just stop thinking and go to sleep so that he could wake up and go to work and leave this goddamn motel room.

But the more he lay there, the more he thought about Castiel. And then he couldn't take it anymore.

So he reached over and flicked on the light, then stood up and grabbed a pair of shoes that were not pointe shoes.

Twenty minutes later, he sat on a barstool and watched as the bartender poured him a drink. The bartender was hot, but even with Gabriel's "homework" forbidding sex, Dean wouldn't have tried to nail her. He just wasn't feeling it tonight, for some reason.

He stared into his whiskey for a couple minutes before he drank it. Then he decided that he might as well start the whole sobriety portion of the assignment tomorrow, and so he lifted it up and closed his eyes.

He was several drinks in when the man walked in. That's the only reason why Dean even slightly considered it, honestly.

The man had dark hair and blue eyes.

He looked at Dean, and that's when Dean realized he had been outright staring at the man for maybe several minutes, so he forced himself to look away. The resemblance to Castiel was fleeting at best‒just the hair and the eyes, really‒but Dean's heart was pounding, and his shirt felt really warm all of a sudden, and then the man was sliding onto the barstool next to Dean, and Dean outright froze.

The man did not acknowledge Dean. Perhaps he was waiting for Dean to say something, first.

And suddenly, Dean knew that he really, really wanted to kiss Castiel. He wanted to kiss him, then take off his clothes and bend him over the barre and make it so that Castiel could never play a virgin again.

Dean knew these things because for a quick moment, he thought he wanted them with this man. But then he'd imagined Castiel's face and Castiel's voice, and the stranger sitting next to him was not Castiel and never would be.

Dean hadn't ever had sex with another man before‒hadn't even admitted to himself that he might want to until today‒but he knew that he probably could tonight, if he wanted to. It was a strange thought, and Dean wasn't sure that he liked it. But then he imagined Castiel sitting beside him instead. Castiel getting tipsy and looking at him with those eyes, waiting for Dean to approach him so that the two of them could go home together.

And Dean's pants felt really tight all of a sudden. He adjusted how he sat on the barstool. He didn't want to be having this realization alone in a bar, but he didn't think he wanted to be having it alone back at the motel, either.

Lusting after Castiel, though, was better than the other thing. Dean understood lust. He kind of embodied it. Literally, as Gabriel's version of the Black Swan. He knew how to seduce people, how to show them a good enough time that they could, just for a little while, forget that their motel room was always empty when they came home. Forget that no matter what they accomplished, someone else would always deserve to be saved more than they deserved to be happy.

But Dean didn't want to think of his father while he sat, half-hard, in a bar. He'd come here to _avoid_ thinking.

So he ignored his thoughts, ignored the man who was not Castiel sitting next to him, and turned to flirt with the bartender instead. At least he wouldn't be able to think about Castiel while he fucked _her_.

He didn't know whether he'd be coming inside a woman or coming in his own hands, but he knew that however the night went, he was going to be getting off at some point. And if that disappointed Gabriel, then Dean decided he didn't give a fuck. He needed some sort of release, and dancing just wasn't enough.

He ordered another drink and wondered if he could get drunk enough that he'd forget every single thought he'd had this whole awful godforsaken night.


	4. Act III

When Dean walked in for practice the next day, Gabriel was the only other person there. It wasn't exactly surprising; Dean was rather early, after all. But Gabriel didn't seem all that enthused to see him.

"You know who wears sunglasses indoors?" Gabriel asked, sighing.

"Douchebags?" Dean supplied.

"Hungover people," Gabriel said flatly.

Dean took off the sunglasses and tossed them onto the floor next to his duffel. "Damn. I haven't been hungover in years. I forgot what it feels like." It wasn't that bad. Just a pounding in his head that worsened every time he looked at a light, and maybe there was a bit of dizziness, too. But that might be from the lack of sleep, and the fact that he'd skipped dinner and breakfast.

"Fuck, you're a mess," Gabriel said, almost in awe.

"The one and only," Dean said. "But isn't that how ballerinas are supposed to be? All poised and shit onstage, then starving ourselves and going crazy behind the curtain? I'm only living up to everyone's expectations." He walked over to the tray in the corner of the room to crush rosin into his new pointe shoes, increasing their ability to hold traction on the smooth floor.

"Well, you certainly lived up to mine," Gabriel said.

Dean paused, but said nothing.

"I knew you couldn't do it. Not even for one single night." Gabriel shook his head. "Well, you know what they say..."

Dean didn't. But he expected that Gabriel was about to tell him.

Gabriel cleared his throat. "For all the water in the ocean can never turn the swan's black legs to white, although she lave them hourly in the flood."

At Dean's blank expression, Gabriel rolled his eyes and said, " _Shakespeare_ , you plebian dimwit. _Titus Andronicus_. It's a metaphor, though I'm using it a little more literally here. Because you're the swan with black legs. The black swan. Are you starting to get what I'm saying?"

"You're trying to tell me that I'll never be able to be the White Swan," Dean said.

"I'm trying to tell you that you'll never be able to think like a virgin again. You'll never be able to be pure, or innocent, or delicate, because no matter how much you try and scrub yourself clean, you're still dirty," Gabriel almost sneered the words.

Dean kind of preferred the Shakespeare. Because at least then, he hadn't understood what Gabriel was trying to say with it.

"Oh, come on, dude. I just messed up one night," Dean said.

"And that's all it takes, isn't it? You only get one V-card. Why should I give you more chances than that?"

"Because I'm the best you've got for the Swan Queen," Dean said. He started doing stretches, preparing for warm-up.

Gabriel laughed. "Oh, I wouldn't bet on that. I could just give the role to Castiel. He has no problem playing virgins."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "And what'll you do when Castiel has to play the Black Swan? He can't do it. You told me that yourself."

"And yet, he still does a better job at it than you do trying to play the White Swan. It's embarrassing, really. Like watching a man in bad drag trying to make fun of women," Gabriel said. Dean didn't know what he was supposed to make of _that_ metaphor. He decided not to read too far into it. He shouldn't try and read into _anything_ Gabriel said. Gabriel would just say what he meant by it, anyway. He took too much delight in big reveals.

The door to the practice room opened. Dean's back was turned, but he heard the sound of ballet shoes against smooth floor as another dancer walked into the room.

"Ah, speak of the... angel," Gabriel said.

Castiel had arrived, then. Which meant that Dean's talk with Gabriel was over, thank fucking god.

Dean eased out of his stretch, then turned and immediately locked eyes with Castiel. Dean's heart started to beat in his chest a little harder. He took a shallow breath. "Hey, Cas," he said, his voice overly casual.

And then Dean knew what he needed to do. How to prove to Gabriel that he was still the right dancer for the Swan Queen.

He was going to suggest they practice the [Black Swan Pas de Deux](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p21n1xorjEs), and then he was going to seduce Castiel with it right then and there. He was going to make Castiel lust over Dean so that at least the damn feeling was mutual, and they could both hate themselves over it.

And so after the other dancers arrived, and after the warm-up, Dean and Castiel were once again standing at the center of the floor, apart from everyone else, waiting for the piano to start.

This time, they entered the stage together. The music started off faster, more upbeat. Dean immediately moved away from Castiel to dance by himself at first. He stepped in front of Castiel as if the other dancers were the audience before the big stage, Dean's quick movements ensnaring everyone's attention.

It felt good to play Odile again. Powerful. And Dean wore that power as confidence in his dance. Odile knew what she was doing, what she wanted, and even when Siegfried's arms were supporting her, when his strength suspended her, it was she who was in control. The only trust Dean needed was that which he placed in his own abilities.

Castiel's movements shadowed Dean's as Castiel watched and calculated, paying careful attention to how Dean moved so that he could best match the timing.

And then Castiel's hand was around Dean's waist, his other hand grasped Dean's wrist, and the two of them danced across the width of the room. Dean leaped once as they traversed the floor, and Castiel held onto him, extending the leap and softening Dean's landing.

Then both of Castiel's hands were on Dean's waist. The two of them moved back across the room, Castiel still almost entirely obscured behind Dean.

It was like they danced as one person. They knew how to anticipate each other, how to use each other's skill to amplify their own.

But then Dean caught Castiel's, eye, and he knew that it wasn't working. Castiel was an incredibly skilled dancer, but he was not being seduced. He was merely performing the movements as he was supposed to, his expression smooth and neutral.

Which meant that Dean needed to try harder. He split away from Castiel and moved to the other side of the room, then danced with controlled abandon, his movements fluid but sharp. Dean smirked at Castiel as he enticed Castiel to join with him again.

Dean grew ambitious, pushing both of them to attempt more difficult maneuvers. Castiel matched him perfectly every single time, even when Dean tried to catch him off guard by initiating movements that weren't conventional for this particular dance.

Castiel let go of Dean again, and Dean stepped away, raising his arms and flapping them with a smooth, determined motion, transitioning into the next part of the song.

"Stop," Gabriel's voice said.

The piano music cut off abruptly. Dean stumbled, losing his focus.

"That's enough showing off, Dean," Gabriel said. "Act III has plenty of other dancers. Why don't you give them some time in the spotlight, hmm?"

Dean felt like he was coming out of a daze. His head still pounded, and he was just starting to realize that his feet hurt, too. Must be the damn new pointe shoes he hadn't finished breaking in yet. He walked over to the side of the room, and a sharp pain went through his foot.

When he removed the shoe, he saw that there was blood on his foot.

He looked up, searching the room for Castiel, but Castiel was gone. Dean hadn't even heard him leave the room.

Dean breathed hard, suddenly overwhelmed by the pain in his feet. No one was looking at him, now. The other dancers and Gabriel were all focused on several dancers who were busy practicing a different part of Act III.

Dean tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Even when everything had gone perfectly, he'd still managed to fuck it up somehow.

* * *

 

By the time Dean got back to the motel, he was in a sour mood. _Screw Gabriel_ , he decided. _Hell, screw dancing_. He was suddenly glad that John had probably never gotten his voicemail. That meant that at least John wouldn't be disappointed when inevitably Dean lost the part of the Swan Queen.

Dean wasn't even going to try and stay in the motel room tonight. He wasn't going to mope and feel sorry for himself.

But in the ten minute window of time between when Dean had arrived at the motel and when he was ready to leave, there was a knock at his door.

He yanked the door open. He didn't have the patience for caution right now.

It was Castiel.

"Dean," Castiel said.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked, knowing he sounded guarded and a little annoyed.

"I came to apologize."

"For what?" Dean asked. Castiel had done nothing wrong; it had all been Dean's fault, as per fucking usual.

"For, well, _everything_ ," Castiel said, explaining nothing. "Gabriel's displeasure is not solely your burden to bear."

Dean sighed. "Is that it?" he asked.

"That was the primary reason for my visit, yes‒" Castiel started.

"Because I'm kind of on my way out," Dean interrupted him.

Castiel stared at him for a moment. "Of course. I guess I shall... be on my way, then." He didn't move from where he stood right outside Dean's door.

"Right," Dean said.

"Right," Castiel echoed.

Dean stared him down for a minute, but Castiel still made no attempt to move. So Dean just stepped forward, shouldered past him and started to walk out into the parking lot. Then he stopped. His expression darkened. If he wanted to see Gabriel's favorite virgin soiled, there was more than one way to achieve that.

"Hey, Cas..." Dean said. He turned around. "You should come with me. Live a little."

"Where are you going?" Castiel asked.

"Somewhere fun. There'll be plenty of debauchery," Dean said.

Castiel did not respond to Dean's stirring review of their destination, but he fell in step beside Dean, so presumably that meant he was interested.

When they reached the Impala, Dean opened Castiel's door for him like a gentleman. Then Dean walked around the car and slid into the driver's seat.

They didn't talk much on the way there. It wasn't a long drive. When Dean pulled up and parked right outside the building, Castiel looked at the establishment for a long moment.

"This is a bar," Castiel said.

"Yep. Your go-to place for booze and hook-ups." Dean grasped the door handle.

"I have no need for either of those things," Castiel said.

Dean removed his hand from the door, realizing that this was going to take some convincing. "Yeah, well, some people aren't as good and pure as you," he said.

"It is not a measure of purity," Castiel said. "I just do not desire to have alcohol or meaningless sexual intercourse."

"So, what, you'd rather stay in the car, then?" Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. "Yes." He seemed quite resolute.

Dean really didn't want to go into that bar alone and get drunk again thinking of Castiel, especially if he'd be aware the whole time that Castiel was just sitting alone back in Dean's car, waiting. Dean's plan had been to bring Castiel to a bar to, at the very least, get a couple drinks inside of him so that he was not the perfect virginal White Swan that Gabriel wanted him to be.

And maybe after Dean had had a few drinks, too, he'd have the nerve to actually say something about the other thing. The thing that he still wasn't letting himself name.

But if Castiel wasn't willing to set foot inside the bar, then Dean wasn't going to go in and drink alone.

"Dean," Castiel said, after a minute passed in silence. "You are not less good or less pure than me. We all make poor choices sometimes."

"Then why can't I play the White Swan?" Dean asked. "Because _you_ sure as hell can. What am I doing wrong?"

Castiel stared out the front windshield for a moment. Dean watched the play of passing headlights shine across his face.

"I don't know," Castiel said. Another long moment passed before he continued. "Perhaps you just need to have more faith."

"Faith," Dean repeated, incredulous. "Faith in what? In you? In _God_?"

Castiel turned to look at him. Even in the dark, the blue of his eyes was vibrant. "In yourself."

This was the part of the conversation where Dean backed out. He didn't want to be talking about this while sitting inside his car with no way of physically escaping the conversation if he needed to. So he turned the ignition and the car started with a rumbling growl.

"If we're not going in, then I don't see any point in staying here," Dean said in explanation.

He took them back to the motel because he couldn't think of anywhere else to go. His life tended to be kind of limited to bars and motels and diners. _And dancing_ , he added.

After Dean unlocked the door to his room, he turned and regarded Castiel for a moment before he entered. "Come in, I guess. I'd offer you a beer or something, but I'm out." Dean wasn't all that great at entertaining guests. At least, he wasn't all that great at entertainment that didn't involve sticking his tongue in their mouths.

"That is fine. I would prefer just talking with you, anyway," Castiel said.

"Yeah, I guess we haven't really had the opportunity for a lot of that yet," Dean said. He perched on the end of his bed and eyed the mess of bunched up sheets. He smoothed them out a little, feeling almost self-conscious.

Castiel pulled out a chair from the table in the kitchenette.

They sat in silence for a minute. Dean fidgeted a little where he sat, wishing he had something in his hands to work with, or the television on in the background, or really _anything_ else to focus on. "This whole talking thing‒it's not really my forte," Dean said.

"That doesn't matter. I am enjoying just spending time with you," Castiel said.

"Why?" Dean asked.

"Because I..." Castiel stood up. He walked over to the window and stared out of it. "I think the proper words are _I love you_." He turned around and faced Dean as he said it.

Dean's breath stopped. Then he gave a short laugh. "That's impossible. Nice try at a joke, though, Cas. Gold star for effort." He stood up and faced away from Castiel.

"Why is that impossible?" Castiel asked. If this were anyone else, Dean might think he was being defensive, but Castiel's tone only conveyed curiosity.

_Because we barely know each other_ , Dean tried to say, though something about the thought seemed false for some reason. _Because we're both dudes_ was an even flimsier excuse. _Because people only say they love me after I've fucked them._

But what Dean said instead was: "How long?"

When Castiel answered him, he spoke slowly, deliberately. "Since I first saw you, alone and in torment, and I knew that I had to save you. Not out of obligation, or pity, but because your soul was pure and good and beautiful."

"But I fucked up," Dean said, thinking of the first time Castiel had watched him dance. There was a memory underneath that one, too. A faded impression of Dean standing before a torture rack. "I'm not‒" Dean started.

"You don't think you deserve to be loved?"

And that was it. Everything was suddenly _too much_ , and Dean needed to get out. He couldn't do this. "This is stupid," he said. He started to walk towards the door, not sure what he was even planning on doing.

"Dean‒"

" _Fuck_ ," Dean said. He stopped walking. "You weren't supposed to‒to reciprocate, or whatever." He took in a breath, then exhaled it in a huff.

He didn't hear Castiel approach him, but he somehow knew that if he turned around, Castiel would be standing right behind him.

"What did you want to happen, then?" Castiel asked, his voice soft.

"I don't know!" Dean said. "You were just supposed to want to sleep with me. But then _that_ didn't even happen."

"I _do_ want to sleep with you," Castiel said. "If you desire it."

Dean's heart was pounding in his chest, and he hated it. "Then why didn't you want me when I danced?" he asked. He knew he sounded insecure, and he hated that, too. But he had to know the answer.

"Because I didn't want you that way. I wanted more than that."

Dean was quickly running out of reasons to not be kissing Castiel right now. But there was still something that kept him from wanting to speak to Castiel face-to-face, and whatever it was, Dean was unable to overcome it.

"Show me," Dean finally choked out.

Then Castiel's hand was on Dean's shoulder, and he was turning Dean around to face him.

Dean went with the motion, but he still didn't meet Castiel's eyes. Maybe he was afraid of what he might find there.

Castiel's hand lifted. Then his fingers gently brushed against Dean's cheek. His touch was almost reverent, like Dean was something precious and delicate, yet worthy of awe. Dean's skin tingled at the point of contact between them.

For a moment, Dean wished they were dancing again. Where there was a certain intimacy, yes, but most of it was pantomime. This felt like both of them were standing too still. That it was too genuine.

When Dean finally tipped his head up so that he and Castiel would be at about eye level, he closed his eyes.

"Dean..." Castiel whispered.

Dean opened his eyes. And Castiel was looking at him with such open honesty and tenderness, Dean didn't know what to do with all of it. He searched for the lie, for the part where none of this was real, and he couldn't find it.

Then Castiel leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss onto Dean's lips.

It was almost nothing, just a slight, chaste pressure against Dean's mouth, but it made Dean's legs feel unsteady, his arms trembling a little at his sides.

The second kiss was even better.

And the third time, Dean kissed him back.

"Do you believe me now?" Castiel whispered.

"I'm starting to," Dean said, his voice rough. He grabbed Castiel's face and kissed him again. This time, Dean moved the two of them deeper into the room and away from the door.

Dean removed his hand from Castiel's face and let it trail down Castiel's chest, his fingers fumbling for buttons or other fastenings to undo.

Then, all of a sudden, he stopped. His hands stilled, and he broke off the kiss. He stepped away so that there was at least a little distance between them.

"What's wrong?" Castiel asked, his breathing uneven.

"This... is the part in Black Swan where Lily and Nina have sex," Dean said. For once, remembering about the film here didn't actually bother him.

Castiel looked at him strangely, but asked no questions.

"Lily takes Nina out, and they get beyond wasted, and then they come back to Nina's apartment and bang each other. It's when Nina finally figures out how to go dark side."

Dean sat down at the edge of the nearest bed‒John's bed‒and stared at the opposite wall, thinking.

Castiel sat next to him after a few seconds passed. He said nothing, perhaps deciding he did not want to break Dean's concentration.

"But it turns out it was just a dream," Dean said. The thought made him feel a little sad for some reason. "Or a hallucination, or whatever." He smiled, the expression almost grim. "At least that's one thing that _isn't_ happening to me. I'm not going crazy."

He turned to look at Castiel. "Look at that. Optimism," Dean said, pleased.

But he didn't look at Castiel very long, knowing that if he did, he might start to forget about _Black Swan_ , about everything.

"But this is already a dream," Dean said. "All of it. It doesn't matter if we have sex now or not; either way, it didn't actually happen."

"Do you want to do it anyway?" Castiel asked.

Dean did look at him after that, regarding him carefully. "Yes, but I'm not going to," Dean said slowly. He hadn't realized his decision until he voiced it out loud.

"Why?" Castiel asked.

"Because I... want to wait," Dean said. The moment he said it, he knew it sounded dumb, and he cringed. He stumbled for an explanation. "If Gabriel benches me, then at least one of us will still be able to play the virgin. And I don't..." Dean took a breath. "Want to mess that up, too."

He thought about the scene in _Black Swan_ , about how Nina took on some of Lily's darkness, and Dean knew that he loved Castiel too much to do that to him. He didn't want to corrupt the one thing in his life that was good and pure and beautiful.

"Because the performance is tomorrow, and you can't be walking around with that whole _just got laid_ aura. Which you will definitely get when you have sex with me, by the way," Dean said, smirking at Castiel.

"What about after the performance?" Castiel asked. "Can we‒"

"Have sex then? Fuck yeah!" Dean said. A brief thought entered his mind that _Black Swan_ had ended right as the performance had, but he dismissed it. Unlike Nina, he wasn't going crazy. He wasn't going to do something stupid like die on stage. After all, he had a promise to keep. Something to live for besides carrying out the best performance of his life.

Dean leaned over and kissed Castiel quickly, trying to clear his thoughts. "It's kind of weird, though," Dean said, his voice soft. "It feels like everything's only been a couple days, but the performance is tomorrow." He almost wished he'd had more time to practice dancing with Castiel, to just spend more time in general with him outside of dancing. " _God_ , I hate dreams."

"Even this one?" Castiel asked, his gaze trusting yet sharp at the same time.

Dean looked at him, his eyes darting from Castiel's eyes to his lips and back. "No," he said. Though he couldn't speak for how his waking self would feel about it.

Castiel moved to kiss him, his hand coming up to grasp Dean's face possessively, and Dean made a sound against Castiel's mouth that caused Castiel to break the kiss.

"I'm all for this, don't get me wrong," Dean said. "But let's move to the other bed first." He glanced down at the still-perfectly-made bed they were sitting on. He really didn't want to be kissing Castiel on his father's bed.

After they had both settled onto Dean's bed, Dean had to remind himself that they weren't about to have sex. He wasn't exactly sure what to do when he had someone sleeping over who was only there to, well, _sleep_. "You are staying, right?" Dean asked, realizing he hadn't actually asked that question yet.

"Yes," Castiel said. He reached over and trailed his fingers down Dean's arm, the movement seeming experimental, like Castiel was also trying to figure out what to do, how to make _this_ work.

"Good," Dean said. He felt himself relax a little more. "Good," he repeated, staring up at the ceiling from where he lay on his back.

The two of them lay together in silence for a long time. It was a comfortable silence, though, so Dean didn't see a need to fill it with unnecessary words. Words were kind of clumsy, anyway, and Dean wasn't too good at them most of the time. He was better at dancing.

He tried to think about the performance that loomed ahead of them, but all of his thoughts just kept drifting back to Castiel lying beside him. Dean imagined what it would be like with just the two of them on stage, all of the other dancers and the audience becoming merely the backdrop for Dean and Castiel's dance.

And then Dean thought the only thing that could make this better is if the Castiel that was here with him now, the Castiel that had just confessed his love for Dean, that had kissed him and promised to stay with him, if that Castiel could be there for Dean in the real world, too. He didn't want to wake up to an empty bed and that hollow feeling which seemed to linger just out of reach in this dream. Whatever had caused that feeling, Dean didn't want to remember it.

_I wish I could just sleep forever_ , Dean thought, knowing as he did that it wasn't actually true. He'd had that choice before, and he always picked the other option. But right now, for this one night, he couldn't remember why.


	5. Act IV

Dean awoke to the sound of someone unlocking the door. He went from bleary-eyed to instantly awake. The arm around him tightened, and Dean turned and found Castiel staring at him. For a moment, Dean forgot about the door, momentarily stunned that Castiel was still there, that last night had even happened at all.

Then the door swung open. Dean sat up and looked at whoever had just entered the room. Then he scrambled to get out of the bed, running his hands through his hair, trying to clean himself up a little.

"Dad," Dean said.

"Dean," John said. He stepped further into the room. Then his eyes stopped on Castiel, who was just getting out of Dean's bed. "What is this?" John asked. "What is that man doing in your bed, Dean?" His voice was sharp.

"Um," Dean said. The reality had just started to hit that John was actually _here_. Dean stopped himself from just staring dumbly at his father, and he tried to stand to attention, but somehow he didn't think he could really play the perfect soldier right now. "Cas is, uh..."

"Is _this_ what you've been doing since I've been gone?" John said. "Sleeping with men like some sort of‒"

"Stop," Dean said. And John did. But his gaze was undecipherable and hard as steel. "I'm not‒ I'm not like _that_ ," Dean started. "I still like women. But I just‒Cas just‒" His mouth felt dry, and Dean wanted to be doing anything else in the world besides having this conversation right now, except he was so relieved to see John again, it almost didn't even matter.

"Do you know what I sacrificed to come here?" John said. He wasn't looking at Cas at all now. Instead, Dean was the sole focus of his stare. "Lives are at stake, Dean."

"I know!" Dean said. "Lives are _always_ at stake! But you can't save all of them, and sometimes, you just... you need to do something for yourself." He paused, looking at Castiel, then at his ballet duffel. "Because that's the only way you can keep going."

John's mouth was a tight line. "I came to see a performance. Not... whatever this is," he said.

"Yeah, well I'm sorry I disappointed you," Dean said, his voice flat. "Fuck, I really don't want to be doing this right now." He turned away from John. He looked at Castiel and tried to focus on him instead, using the sight of him to ground himself a little.

John didn't answer. But his anger was palpable in the silence.

"I don't..." Dean took a steadying breath. "I don't know how much time I have left here, but I don't want to spend it fighting with you, Dad."

"What, are you planning on dying anytime soon?" John asked. It could've been a joke, had he used the right tone for it, but he didn't, and instead he just sounded suspicious and tense.

"No," Dean said. "But y'know what? Let's say I do bite it. What if this is the last time you ever see me?" He didn't think hypotheticals like that even worked on John, but dammit, Dean had to at least _try_ , and he thought that one might go over better than _I'm going to wake up soon and will never get to see you again_.

"I don't have time to wait for you to get all desensitized to me and Cas. Let's just skip that part," Dean said, when John didn't respond. He looked at the clock, and he realized that he was quickly losing time before him and Castiel would have to leave.

"And if you can't do that, then that's fine," Dean said. "Just... come to the performance, okay?" For just once in his life, he wanted to look out into the audience and see his father there. He wanted to accomplish at least one thing that would make John proud of him.

But John just turned around and walked out of the motel room without saying another word. Maybe he just needed some time to process the whole my-son-isn't-quite-straight thing, or maybe he'd just decided to leave again as abruptly as he'd arrived, to just take his truck and hit the highway with dust and another crappy motel in his rearview mirror.

But he'd listened to Dean's voicemail, and he'd bothered to try and make the performance. Dean hadn't even let his expectations reach that high. He didn't even feel angry about how John had reacted, just a little sad about it. Bitter, maybe, that that's the way it had to be.

At some point, Dean realized that he was just standing there, staring at the door, and he didn't know how long ago John had even left.

Dean turned to say something to Castiel, but there was no one there. Besides Dean, the motel room was empty. He frowned. Then he walked into the bathroom to take a shower, and by the time he stepped out, he had mostly already forgotten that Castiel had left without even saying anything.

 

* * *

 

He arrived late. Which was strange, since he had woken up with plenty of time to get ready and get to practice.

Dean was still confused about it even as he rushed onto the stage, his presence immediately halting the rehearsal. He felt momentarily guilty for disrupting the other dancers, but then his breath stopped as his eyes fixated on one central figure on the stage.

Castiel. Castiel was there, dancing, without Dean. He was wearing a black tutu and a tiara. A few black feathers flared from the tiara, and there were wings embroidered onto the tutu in silver.

"Cas?" Dean said, his voice hesitant, disbelieving. He'd thought they'd arrive together, that they would start at the beginning of the ballet and Dean could finally show Gabriel how well they danced together now that they had figured out everything that was between them.

But this was... this wasn't anything like that. Because Dean recognized that costume. His eyes lingered on the black feathers in the tiara, the whole thing a beautiful halo around Castiel's head as if it belonged there.

This was the Black Swan's costume. _Dean's_ costume. For the character he could almost wear like a second skin.

"Dean," Castiel said. "I was unsure whether or not you were coming."

Gabriel stepped forward. He was in costume, too. A garish mismatch of the Court Jester and Rothbart, the "wings" of fabric flecked with gold, the rest of his costume a patchwork of yellow and black and grey. "The Court Jester's not really a character in this version of _Swan Lake_ ," Gabriel explained. "But I identified with him too much to leave him out, so now I represent all of the characters that couldn't be with us here today. A true Frankenstein's monster of a villain, except not, y'know, actually Frankenstein's monster, because he really has no business showing up in a production of _Swan Lake_."

Dean motioned to Castiel. "What is _he_ doing up there?" he asked Gabriel, since he didn't think he could ask the question directly to Castiel.

"I am your alternate," Castiel said. "In the event that you are unable to play the Swan Queen."

"But I'm not. I'm right here," Dean said. "And you're dressed as _my_ part. The part that I'm actually good at."

Castiel's eyes flashed. "You are jealous," he said.

"No, I just..." Dean said. He looked around at the other dancers. "Can we talk about this somewhere where everyone is _not_ staring at us?" he asked.

Castiel's eyes softened. "Since you are here, it should no longer be a problem," he said. "I will remove the costume and put on Siegfried's again." He walked offstage, and Dean stared after him and almost tried to follow him, but he wasn't sure that Castiel wanted him to.

Dean turned towards Gabriel. "We need to have a word," he said.

Gabriel stepped further backstage with Dean. When they were alone, Gabriel turned and waited.

"Boyfriend," Gabriel said, after a long moment passed and Dean still hadn't said anything.

"What?" Dean asked.

"You said we need to have _a word_ , so that's the word I picked," Gabriel said. "Boyfriend. It's what you want Castiel to be. Or he wants you to be. Or what you both already are. Because honey, I've been around long enough to recognize when people are making bedroom eyes at each other, and that's what you two lovebirds‒ _love swans?_ ‒ were doing."

"Thanks, Yente, but I really don't give a rat's ass about what you think," Dean said. "Or what you _think_ you think," he corrected.

"Whoa hey!" Gabriel threw up his hands. "I'm just trying to remind you that this ain't no backwoods county fair square dance," he said. "This isn't the time to be making eyes with that handsome cowboy that lives up the hill. We're professionals. Coworkers‒well, you and Castiel are. I'm your boss‒ And as much fun as it would be, we really don't need the drama right now."

"This isn't about me and Castiel! It's about... me and Castiel. Separately. Not as a couple," Dean said, trying to get the conversation back to the actual important matter at hand.

"Oh?" Gabriel asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"I can do it. I can do the White Swan," Dean said.

"And what makes you so sure about that?" Gabriel asked.

There were a lot of answers Dean could give to that, but exactly none of them were anything he wanted to admit to Gabriel. He knew that Gabriel would know if he was being less than honest, though. Also if he didn't give a genuine answer, then he'd lose the part.

 _To hell with it_ , Dean thought. "Because I still don't trust myself to do it right, but I trust Castiel, and _he_ trusts that I can do it, and that's enough for me."

"Still dependent on other people, I see," Gabriel said, shaking his head. "You really can't deal with being alone, can you?"

"Maybe not," Dean said, "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm damn good at my job, and we both know I'm going to blow this performance out of the fucking water."

"Fine. This is your moment of truth," Gabriel said. "Prove me wrong."

Then Gabriel walked away without even waiting for a response. Maybe he figured that it was too satisfying of a dramatic note to end the conversation on, and he couldn't resist leaving it there.

 

* * *

 

As much as Dean tried, he was completely unable to find time to speak with Castiel alone. They didn't even get a chance to practice dancing together. The only thing Dean got was an occasional glance of Castiel, or maybe a couple minutes of staring at him across the floor.

Dean knew that rehearsing beforehand was important, but he almost had the sense that some unknown narrative force was in his way. It was okay, though. Because Dean really did know that the performance was going to turn out amazing regardless of what happened leading up to it.

And so it didn't feel like much time had passed when Dean found himself in his dressing room, staring at a beautifully tailored white tutu, embroidered with a silver wing pattern. He had no memory of the actual fitting process, but it clearly looked like it had been made precisely for him.

He put it on with a sense of reverence. Then he applied the makeup, his hand steady and sure.

Afterwards, he took a minute to just stare dumbly at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like someone else. Someone who was pretty. He waited for it to be funny, for it to seem like a joke, but it wasn't.

 _Fuck_ , Dean had forgotten what it was like to feel pretty. The last time he’d actually _felt_ pretty, and not just had someone tell him he had a pretty face, had been years and years ago. But even with Rhonda Hurley and those satin panties, the feeling had been colored with a sense of shame, and there was none of that here.

He finally tore his gaze away from his reflection because he still wasn't done getting dressed yet.

His duffel was already partially unzipped, but Dean opened it wider. He picked up the pair of newly broken in pointe shoes. They'd finally reached that sweet spot where they felt wonderful to dance in, though Dean knew they probably wouldn't last much longer than this performance. The shoes already looked dull and well-used, though the box in the toes hadn't started to go soft yet.

Dean set the shoes on the vanity table. Then he looked back into his duffel, and once again, his eyes stopped on that beautifully carved box. This time, Dean tucked his fingers underneath it and lifted it out of the bag. He set it down next to the pointe shoes, then he picked up the shoes and tossed them back into the duffel.

He felt a sense of eager anticipation when his fingers brushed against the clasp of the box. There were sigils carved into the wood, and Dean looked at them and disregarded them. He unclasped the box, then slowly lifted the gently curved lid.

The contents of the box weren't exactly a surprise. Dean remembered the red satin interior, the precise imprints molded into it, and nestled in the red satin was a pair of pointe shoes.

He removed the shoes, handling them carefully. They looked brand new, despite the worn box they were stored in, and there weren't any smudges or flecks of dust on the pink satin.

Dean put them on.

They fit his feet perfectly. There was none of the discomfort Dean had experienced with a brand new pair of pointe shoes. The shank supported the sole, but did not feel too stiff, and the shoes already felt molded to Dean's feet. He tied the ribbons without paying a lot of attention, too distracted by the feel of the shoes.

Almost immediately, he rolled up onto his toes. He couldn't wait to test them out, to see if they really felt as good to dance in as they promised.

There was no pain. Not even an inkling of it. He glanced down, then realized his feet were moving, taking tiny little steps in place, and the couru felt almost like it wasn't in his conscious control, like something was compelling him.

But it just felt so damn _good_ , and Dean decided that was the only thing that mattered. As long as he could still dance, he could play the Swan Queen and finish the performance. Afterwards, he would find Castiel, and he would kiss him. Then Dean would apologize for being so eager to look for deceit and betrayal in Castiel's actions, and they could finally have sex.

For the first time, Dean kind of felt... light. That he really was almost floating across the floor, all of his weight and the weight of everything else on his shoulders temporarily suspended. And his nerves had dissipated with the rest of it.

He let himself just enjoy the feeling for a while without anyone else around to see it or try and take it away from him.

And then it was almost time for the Prologue, and Dean needed to be ready to go onstage, so he left his dressing room and waited backstage. He traversed the distance between them in a series of ballet steps.

When Dean stepped out onto the stage, it was the loneliest he had ever felt. Rothbart was a dark blur in his awareness, and Dean danced Odette without thinking about it, since the scene was really too brief to worry about characterization. Dean wondered if John was sitting in the audience, if he was watching him right now.

If John was critiquing his technique.

Dean thought a lot about John while he quietly danced backstage during Act I, waiting for his next cue.

The curtains slid closed; the audience applauded; the [orchestra music swelled louder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BpzS1m6gc0).

When Dean stepped out on stage next, the whole set was lit red.

In lieu of the traditional blue light, which cast an eerie tranquility to the lake of cursed swans, the scarlet lent a hellish glow to this pit of damned souls. Their white costumes bled pink with it.

As Odette, Dean emerged slowly from the side of the stage. He knew that Siegfried was on the other side of the stage, watching him, but Odette entered the scene while she faced away from him, gliding backwards on her toes, so Dean did not see Castiel at first.

He imagined the look of feigned wonder on Castiel's face, Siegfried catching his first sight of Odette and lowering his crossbow in awe.

This act of the ballet was the real moment of truth for Dean's characterization of the White Swan. She must be delicate; she must be breakable, and yet, she must be somehow still seemingly untouched. That was how she must appear to the audience, because that was how she appeared to Siegfried.

And Dean knew that he wasn't doing it. There was something off about his dance, a wrong note that he was hitting.

But then, he realized that this was how Castiel really did think of Dean. He had said that Dean's soul was pure and good and beautiful. Dean still didn't fully believe it, but maybe Odette was the part of him that did.

As Odette moved across the stage towards Siegfried, her movements were slow and cautious, but maybe it worked, because Dean was still a little cautious and unsure with how he played her.

Odette stopped right in front of Siegfried. The pause lasted only an instant, and Dean met Castiel's eyes.

Then Odette backed away. The music picked up, and her dance quickened a little. She soared across the stage, stopping at the other side, one arm raised to the ceiling, the other bent and lowered towards the floor.

This time, Siegfried approached her. As he neared her, Odette leaned back, and then she turned swiftly and moved away from him, avoiding his attempts to dance with her.

Dean wasn't sure he was quite ready to try dancing again with Castiel as Odette, anyway. The last time they'd tried it, it had not gone well, and Dean didn't trust the tenuous thing that was their fledgling relationship to make it any better.

Again and again, Odette and Siegfried spun around each other, Odette fleeing, and Siegfried pursuing.

Siegfried tried to capture Odette's hands, and Dean felt Castiel's skin against his own. Odette slipped free and moved away again, but Dean's heart was pounding, and when Odette turned and Siegfried finally grasped hold of her wrists, Dean's breath caught.

But he was pulling away from Castiel, and his feet were moving beneath him. He couldn't tell how much of it was him dancing Odette's part, or how much of it was the shoes compelling him to move.

Again, Odette danced away from Siegfried, except when her dance brought her close to him again, she placed her arm around his shoulder, and he grasped her waist. Siegfried lifted her into the air, spinning them both around.

Dean felt dizzy, but not because of the movement.

They started to dance together, teasing at the pas de deux. Castiel's grasp was firm but gentle, but Odette did not linger long, so Dean had to move away from him again.

Finally, they came together and clasped hands again, and maybe it was the beginning of a promise, but Rothbart stepped out of the shadows and disrupted it, his appearance sending Odette into distress. Dean was kind of sick of how something always seemed to interrupt him and Castiel right when they were starting to get somewhere.

Odette and Siegfried danced together for a very brief time after Rothbart's appearance, but Odette was more desperate now. She struck a sharp pose in Siegfried's arms, her arms stretched behind her, right leg extended. And Dean knew that whatever Castiel had said earlier, everything was not fine between them, because he could feel it in the way that Castiel held him.

Or maybe it was in the way that Dean let Castiel hold him? Some part of him still resisted Castiel's support, because no matter how much he tried to believe that Castiel hadn't lied to him, that Castiel had not actually been secretly training for Dean's role the entire time, there was still that little smudge of doubt that marred his belief.

When Odette finally left the stage for a few scenes, Dean was grateful, because he could sense himself starting to lose his grasp on her character, and he would rather work through that offstage than on.

But it was not very long before the first notes of the White Swan Pas de Deux started, and Dean had to step back onstage, and he still hadn't figured out what he was going to do, how he was going to make this work.

Odette fluttered away from Siegfried at first. Then she folded her legs beneath her and lowered her arms to rest against her toes. Dean waited for Siegfried to step close. He waited for Castiel to grasp his hands and coax him back onto his feet.

Dean thought about all the ways this dance had gone wrong the first time they'd tried it. He remembered how unsure he'd felt, how he'd been unwilling to trust Castiel enough to follow through with it.

Dean rose from the ground with Castiel's hands on his, Siegfried matching Odette's pose like a physical shadow behind her, supporting her.

Odette spun in a slow pirouette, the music soft and almost melancholy. Then she leaned down and dipped into a penché, Siegfried's arms around her. She faced away from him as she danced, almost as if she was afraid to meet his eyes.

And then, all of a sudden, Dean knew how he was going to do this.

He moved beside Castiel in the red glow, forgetting about the presence of the other swans, about the audience, about the fact that this was even a performance.

Another pirouette, a step, and then a turn.

 _Show me_ , Dean asked through his dance, not wanting to break the pantomime. _Like you did in the motel_. _Show me that you still love me, that I can still trust you, that‒_ He stopped thinking. Just leaned back and let Castiel support him, staring up at the lights overhead.

Their movements were slow, almost tender, and Dean was glad that they could navigate this by feel alone, without talking, because he didn't think he could say any of this aloud.

Castiel and Dean stepped to the front of the stage, the other swans gathering behind them, and then Castiel lifted Dean high into the air. The music quickened, becoming lighter as their dance started to grow a little playful.

Dean remembered when he first met Cas, just after Cas had pulled him from Hell, and the world still felt raw. He remembered praying to Cas when he had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. They'd faced down the apocalypse together.

Castiel spun Dean in a pirouette, faster this time.

As Cas had been losing his faith in God, Dean had been finding his faith in Cas. After all, Cas always answered Dean's prayers.

Castiel lifted Dean high in the air and carried him across the stage, Dean's arms stretched out over Castiel's shoulders behind him.

And, _god,_ Dean was in love with him. He couldn't believe how long it had taken him to figure it out. How much time they had wasted with cowardice and mistrust.

Dean leaned backwards, his arms over Castiel's, and then both of them brought their arms in, and Castiel's arm was wrapped around Dean, his fingers curled around Dean's wrist, and Dean's face was almost tucked into Castiel's neck.

As the music started to change again, picking up longer, more melancholic notes, Dean pulled away from Castiel and stepped away. He slowly beat his arms like wings. The pas de deux was almost over; it wasn't long before they'd be gearing up for the finish, and then after that, the next time Dean would dance a pas de deux with Castiel would be as Odile in the next act.

Dean wasn't ready for it to be over. There was a soft, warm feeling in his chest, and he felt no pain in his feet as Castiel helped him twirl in gentle pirouettes at the front of the stage.

But then Castiel released him, and Dean's dance faltered. _This isn't how it's supposed to end_ , Dean thought, confused.

For some reason, Castiel had moved off script. Dean looked at him, trying to understand why the music was still playing, why Castiel was continuing to dance.

As Dean watched, a black feather emerged from the back of Castiel's white costume.

Another pushed through beside it, and then another. Castiel turned towards Dean, and the front of his chest bloomed black.

The feathers burst from him all over, darkening his white shirt and flaring out from his hips. Briefly, black veins pulsed on his face, but they faded quickly enough that Dean convinced himself he'd imagined it. That it had been a trick of the red light.

Castiel stepped backwards, moving his arms fluidly with determination, and Dean just stood and watched, struck by surprise as Castiel began to dance.

That's when Dean noticed the change in music: It was the Black Swan Pas de Deux.

And Castiel's Siegfried costume had transformed into Odile's, his formerly white shirt turned into a tutu fletched with black feathers.

As Odile, Castiel danced across the stage, twirling and leaping, and then he returned to where Dean stood, and Dean stepped forward and reached up, and his hands grasped Castiel's waist, and they moved back across the floor.

Castiel spun in a quick pirouette, and this time, Dean was the person supporting and not the primary dancer. He was playing Siegfried's role in this dance.

Dean only caught glimpses of Castiel's face while they danced like this, most of the partnered dance movements requiring that he face away from Dean, but then Castiel moved away and started to twirl towards him.

When Castiel paused, Dean and Castiel's eyes met as Castiel glanced over his shoulder, and the expression Castiel wore made Dean almost stop cold.

Except he couldn't. Couldn't stop dancing. He stepped closer to Castiel, then reached out and grasped Castiel's hand to assist him in his dance, but he couldn't stop thinking about how Castiel had looked at him, about that single black droplet that he'd seen sliding down Castiel's cheek.

This dance was quicker than the other pas de deux. Showier. This was Siegfried parading Odile around the court, showing her off to the king and queen, to all of their guests. Dean thought about John again, wondering if he was watching from within the real audience right now. Watching Dean show off his and Castiel's relationship under the guise of Siegfried and Odile's.

Dean tried not to think about what he had seen on Castiel's face. He focused on the possibly-imaginary John, trying to perform for _him_. Trying to convince him that whatever Dean and Castiel had between them, it was good and beautiful.

And everything Gabriel had said about Castiel's supposed inability to play the Black Swan? All bullshit. Because _this_ character was no delicate virgin, and Castiel was playing her just fine.

Dean could feel the power of Castiel's movements as he held him. The next time their gazes locked, it lasted longer, Dean's hands firm on Castiel's waist, with Castiel's arms spread out behind him, and Castiel's stare was all heat and steel.

Castiel twirled, then leapt away. He lifted his arms again, holding them in second position at the ideal angle, the way dancers are taught, so that if a drop of water started at his shoulder, it would roll gently down his arm to end at his fingertips.

Except that was not a metaphorical drop falling from his hand. Something black was dripping from Castiel's fingers.

Then Castiel turned, and this time, Dean knew. He knew where he had seen that expression on Castiel's face, the black liquid, all of it.

When Castiel danced close to Dean again, Dean closed his eyes as he reached to grasp Castiel's hand.

Because the last time Dean had seen Cas like this, it had been right before he'd watched Cas die.

If they kept dancing, then that wouldn't get to happen. The Castiel in this dream wouldn't deceive and betray Dean like the real one had done, because this Castiel loved Dean. He'd demonstrated it in the motel room, in the White Swan Pas de Deux.

This dance felt more sexually charged than usual, dirtier, somehow. Dean could sense the seduction even as he felt himself falling for it. _It's for Siegfried,_ he told himself. But maybe even Siegfried had wanted to delude himself. Had not wanted to look too closely at the woman he thought he loved, because what if she turned out to be someone else entirely?

Or worse. What if she wasn't?

Dean remembered the black sludge bursting from Cas in the water. He remembered collecting that trench coat and folding it up in his arms and holding onto it, because he wanted to cling to a familiar part of Cas from before the betrayal.

But there was nothing familiar in _this_ Castiel. Except for all the parts that were familiar in the worst way. Dean tried to step away from Castiel, unable to continue this dance, but his shoes forced him into a pirouette, and he _couldn't stop dancing_.

When Dean was able to look at Castiel again, he saw that Castiel was shedding feathers at an alarming rate, revealing Siegfried's white costume underneath.

Castiel's expression was one of sadness, now. He approached Dean, and Dean moved away from him, wary.

Dean folded his legs beneath him and lowered himself to the floor. Then Castiel grasped his hands, and Dean gently rose to his feet. As he did, he listened to the music, and then he understood what had just happened.

This was the beginning of the White Swan Pas de Deux again. They'd gone back to Act II, back to the scene where Odette learns to trust Siegfried.

 _No. I'm not going to trust him this time_ , Dean thought, resolute. But as he danced with Castiel, he knew that was a lie, because he could already feel himself yearning to get that feeling back, the feeling of peace and light that had filled him at the end of that dance. This Castiel was looking at him only with love. Love, with the barest edge of sorrow.

And when they reached the end of the pas de deux and black feathers again burst from Castiel, Dean just held onto him and steadied him as he danced, knowing he was just going to get duped again, but not letting himself look too closely, not letting himself see the evidence of Castiel's deceit until he could no longer deny it.

And so the two of them danced, forever.


	6. Epilogue

_Swan Lake_ doesn't have an epilogue. That was Dean's first conscious thought, afterwards. Dean opened his eyes and saw Sam stretched out on the other bed with his laptop, and knew that whatever that dream had been was over now.

His second conscious thought was _why the fuck did I think wearing makeup and a tutu in front of my dad would impress him_? Somehow, out of everything that had happened, that seemed like the most implausible. Dean could already feel a weird delayed shame setting in.

"Look who finally woke up," Sam commented from the other bed.

"Huh?" Dean grunted, sitting up.

"Did you have a good dream?" Sam asked, his eyebrow quirked in amusement. And that's when Dean realized his face was flushed with embarrassment, and that Sam was getting the completely wrong idea about the sort of dream that Dean had just woken up from.

"Um," Dean said eloquently. He was kind of still in a post-sleep daze, but the look on Sam's face was really starting to annoy him, so he just said, "I'm gonna take a shower," then got out of bed, walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

As soon as the water sputtered out from the old showerhead and started to patter onto Dean's skin, he woke up a little more, gaining a bit of clarity.

He couldn't stop thinking about the unusually intense dream he'd just woken up from. He was used to dealing with nightmares, just repressing them and forgetting, but this one hadn't been a nightmare, except for maybe a few parts near the end. And the rest of it had been... kind of nice, actually.

At least, the part where he'd kissed Cas had been kind of nice. Dean started to get caught up in what that had felt like, in the way Cas had looked at him and touched him. He shivered, and maybe he was a little bit turned on.

Except, there was no way any of it could ever happen in the real world, because Cas was dead.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean said, leaning his head against the wall. He tried not to think a whole lot about Cas these days, because so many other things were happening, so much was going wrong, and Dean didn't really have the energy to dwell on losing the people he loved.

But it was so hard not to think about Cas right now, because Dean had felt so in love with him.

In the dream. He'd been in love with him _in the dream_.

But he remembered what it had felt like. That weird, fluttery wrenching feeling in his chest. He remembered it so well, it almost felt like he was still feeling it.

Then Dean realized he _was_ still feeling it, that it hadn't gone away. That he was maybe in love with Cas in the waking world, too.

And he'd picked the absolute fucking worst time to figure it out, because he'd already screwed it up and threw away his last opportunity somewhere right before Cas went full dark-side and then got himself killed in order to unleash a new evil upon the world. Dean wondered if he'd been in love with Cas then, and if Cas had known and had loved him back, would Cas still have lied and betrayed him?

Dean's throat felt tight. He swallowed, trying to prevent himself from crying, because he'd already done enough of that over Cas's death, and then Bobby's death, and hell, John's death before both of theirs, since the dream had dredged that one up, too.

He just stood in the shower, tipped his head back and let the water run down his face.

He didn't know how long he cried. He just waited it out, then finished his shower after his tears had run dry. By the time he turned off the water, he'd about reached the limit of the hot water heater.

Then he slung the towel over his hips and left the bathroom.

"Must've been a really good dream if it took you that long," Sam commented as Dean emerged.

Dean just flashed him a smirk and received an eye-roll in response. Dean's grin faded quick, though, and he hoped Sam didn't notice and ask him about it.

Dean reached for his duffel to grab fresh clothes, but after he unzipped it, he just stared into it for a bit, his hand poised over it. There was no carved box, and no pointe shoes‒cursed or otherwise.

"Did you take care of it?" Dean asked Sam.

"What?" Sam looked up, then quickly looked away again when he saw that Dean hadn't put on clothes yet. "Oh, you mean the shoes? Yeah, I took care of them."

"Good," Dean said softly. Though he almost kind of missed them. They'd felt amazing to dance in, and they hadn't needed to be fitted properly or broken in beforehand, and they always looked crisp and beautiful and never wore out. He kind of understood how someone could have created them accidentally in an attempt to make a perfect pair of pointe shoes.

"Are you ready to hit the road again?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, if you're feeling alright," Dean said. He finished getting dressed, then zipped up his duffel and quickly glanced around the room to make sure he hadn't left anything.

He almost thought he saw a pair of shoes sitting on the bed, glossy and pink, but it was just a shadow of light cast through the lampshade.


End file.
